Ordinary Thunderstorms

25

THERE WAS A DARK SPOT ON HIS CRISP, WHITE, USUALLY IMMACULATE pillowcase. No — in fact there were two spots. Two dark red spots a little larger than pinheads. Ingram held his pillow up to the light. Blood. Two tiny spots of blood. Must have nicked myself shaving last night before dinner, he thought, fingertips caressing his jawline. Must have somehow rubbed the scabs off in the night. Anyway, no matter, he said to himself, rolling out of bed. He stepped out of his pyjamas and went for his power-shower.

Post-shower, in his dressing gown, he inspected his face in his shaving mirror but could see no tiny scab, nick or razor burn anywhere on his face. Could tiny drops of blood fall from your eyes? he wondered. Or your mouth — perhaps your teeth? Perhaps he’d bitten his tongue in the night. According to Meredith he ground his teeth while he slept — an unverifiable complaint — and the noise he made grinding his teeth had been the reason they had first decided to try separate bedrooms. Perhaps he had ground too hard last night and a little blood had ensued…Most odd, anyway.

He shaved and then opened the drawer in his dressing room that contained his ironed and neatly folded underwear. Was this a no-underwear day? He had a meeting with Pippa Deere at 10.00 and he always rather enjoyed his covert cock-chafing moments with her. Her nose shone, her lips shone, she wore rather too much gold jewellery: brassy, shiny Pippa Deere. But he thought not: the air of crisis in the company dictated full clothing and he slipped on a pair of red tartan boxer shorts. He could always take them off later, he reasoned, if the unclothed mood came upon him.

Once at Calenture-Deutz, he sauntered into his secretary’s office with something of a spring in his step. Mrs Prendergast leapt to her feet, her face tense, making strange signs in front of her chest.

“Mr Keegan and Mr de Freitas are waiting for you, sir,” she said quickly, clearly as unhappy at this state of affairs as he would be. What the fuck were they doing in his office at 9.30 in the morning?

“I’ll have a black coffee, Mrs P.,” he said, keeping his temper, “one sugar today — and a couple of those custardy biscuits.” He opened his office door — Keegan and de Freitas were sitting on his leather sofa.

“Gentlemen,” he said, crossing the floor to his desk. “What a surprise. Don’t let this happen again, please.”

“Apologies, Ingram,” Keegan said, his tone deferential, “but you had to be the first to know. The press release is going out in an hour. We didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else.”

“Have you found Philip Wang’s killer? Pinfold, Wilfred? What’s-his-name?”

“No. It’s about Zembla-4.”

“Oh. Why can’t we find this man?”

“Ingram,” Keegan persisted, in a faintly, schoolmasterly pay-attention tone. “Zembla-4 goes into the PDA and the MHPvA this morning. We’re announcing it. Officially, we’re ready.”

Ingram said nothing. He thought he managed to keep his face very still.

“Since when did you become CEO of Calenture-Deutz, Burton? That is my decision and the board’s to make.”

“Circumstances have changed,” de Freitas butted in, more emolliently. “We had to move fast.”

“Well, move faster and rescind it,” Ingram said. “This will not happen. Philip Wang died just a few weeks ago — his life’s work is at stake. We are not ready. Philip would be spinning in his grave.”

Keegan held up both hands. “Costas Zaphonopolous has been through all the trials, scrupulously, all the data. All the documentation from the other foreign trials — Italy, Mexico — is ready, immaculate. He gave us the green light, unequivocally.”

“I thought you said there was data missing from Philip’s flat.”

“Not data that affects Zembla-4’s launch.”

“I don’t care what Costas says, I’m sorry. I make this decision. I need to see the facts, the reports. Then the board must sanction the—”

“Ingram,” Keegan interrupted. “Just watch your Calenture-Deutz stock treble — no, quadruple.”

Ingram said nothing. He paced around his office, hands in pockets, head down, giving, he hoped, a good impression of a man deep in thought. There was something about the nasal twang of Keegan’s accent that he found particularly grating this morning.

“I’m sorry, Burton,” he said finally. “This is my company, not yours. I make these decisions — not you. No, repeat, no.”

“It’s too late,” Keegan said flatly, almost insolently, all deferment gone. Both he and de Freitas remained seated. Ingram went to his desk and sat down behind it, as if that restored his authority somewhat.

Now Keegan stood and reached into his briefcase. He fanned out three magazines on Ingram’s desk. Not magazines — learned scientific journals, Ingram saw: The American Journal of Immunology, The Lancet, Zeitschriftfur Pharmakologie.

“Three articles by independent experts in their field raving about Zembla-4,” Keegan said.

“How come? Where did they get their information?”

“We gave them the data and, of course, paid them extremely handsomely.” Keegan smiled. “It’s a slam-dunk, Ingram. And then, next month, wait till you see the advertorials. We’re looking for a full licence well within a year. Six to nine months.” He spread his thin fingers, blocking out the banner headlines: “At Last A Cure For Asthma.”

“I’ve seen them,” he said, pleased to score a modest point. “Alfredo showed them to me.” He smiled. “Well, I’m going to rain on your parade, Burton,” he continued, “very sorry, but the answer is still a loud and immovable ‘no’. It’s ridiculously premature and risky. Philip Wang himself told me a week before he died that he wanted at least another year of third-level clinical trials — he wanted more placebo comparisons — before he would confidently consider submitting for licence. No, no, no,” he smiled his cold smile. “Call everything off.”

“I’m afraid not, Ingram. Don’t go down this road, please.”

Ingram felt his stomach churn. He flipped the switch on his intercom. “Any sign of my umbrella, Mrs P.?”

“Umbrella, sir?”

“I mean my coffee.”

Both Keegan and de Freitas were now standing in front of his desk.

“By the way, you’re both sacked — fired — as of this moment. You have twenty minutes to leave the building. Security will escort you to your offices. You will take nothing with you apart from personal effects—”

“No, Ingram,” Keegan said, tiredly. “We’re not fired. I suggest you call Alfredo Rilke.”

“Alfredo will have your heads served up on silver platters.”

“This is Alfredo’s idea, Ingram. It’s his doing, not ours. We’re just following his instructions.”

Mrs Prendergast came in with Ingram’s coffee and biscuits. Ingram smiled warmly at her: “Thank you, Mrs P.” She gave him a terrified, nervous glance and then hurried out, not looking once at Keegan or de Freitas.

“You can call Alfredo now,” Keegan said.

Ingram looked at his watch. “It’s five o’clock in the morning in the Caribbean.”

“Alfredo’s in Auckland, New Zealand. He’ll take your call — the usual number.”

“Kindly leave the room, gentlemen.”

After they had gone, Ingram sat there for a moment, still, taking stock, trying to come to terms with the whirling multitude of implications from this last conversation. It was as if a hundred invisible bats, or doves, were flying crazily round his room, his ears filled with rushing wing-beats signifying something bad, something doom-laden. He felt like the democratically elected president of a small republic that had just been the victim of a military coup. He had his office, his nice house, the limousine with the liveried chauffeur — but that was all.

“Alfredo?…Ingram.”

“Ingram. I was hoping to hear from you. It’s all very exciting, isn’t it.”

“It’s all a bit sudden, that’s for sure.”

“This is how it works, Ingram. Believe me. I think — if you’ll permit — that I can say I’ve had more experience in this field than you.”

“Indubitably.” It was at moments like these that Ingram wished he had not abandoned property development for the baffling world of pharmaceuticals. It was all so simple, then — you borrowed money, bought a building, sold it for a profit. But Rilke was speaking.

“—Surprise is your best weapon. You build momentum, unstoppable momentum. You only get one chance. Zembla-4 is out there. We have to go now. Now, now, now. Go, go, go.”

“I just feel—”

“We estimate five to eight billion dollars in the first year of full licence. Ten to twelve billion per annum is very realisable, thereafter. This is another Lipitor, a Seroquel, a Viagra, a Xenak-2. We have our blockbuster drug, Ingram. A twenty-year patent. Global. We will die enormously, vastly, disgustingly wealthy men.”

“Yes, good…Well…” Ingram didn’t know how to respond. He felt cowed; he felt that small-boy feeling again, out of his depth, not understanding. “Onwards and upwards,” he managed to say.

“God bless,” Alfredo Rilke said, his voice crackling through the ether. “And congratulations.”

“Good night,” Ingram said, reaching for one of Mrs P.’s custard cremes.

“Just one thing, Ingram,” Rilke said, “before I sign off.”

“Yes?”

“We have to find this Adam Kindred.”